


The Seventh Time

by SwissMiss



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aborted Blow Job, Angst, Challenge fic, Come At Once, Dreams, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, M/M, Porn With Plot, Post-Reichenbach, flangst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:38:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the come_at_once porn challenge on LJ, to the prompt 'Sleeping Beauty'. A little bit of post-Reichenbach angst. John and Sherlock meet in dreamspace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seventh Time

**Author's Note:**

> This is unbetaed because I got it in under the wire as it is. The challenge was to write a smutty fic within 24 hours of being given the prompt. This is probably only tangentially related to the prompt, but I beg for slack to be cut because I actually got an arc and development and all that good stuff. Thanks to mistyzeo for starting the comm and the challenge!

The first time it happened, neither of them knew what to do. John was used to dreaming about Sherlock by now, but he never appeared like this, just standing there in front of a blank backdrop, looking a little confused himself. They both waited for the other one to say something, do something, move things forward, and when neither one did, they both drifted away into other dreams.

%%%%%

The second time it happened, John thought maybe it was due to Ella's prompting him to tell Sherlock all the things he hadn't before. So he told him he was selfish and an idiot, and that nothing could have been so bad that he had to kill himself over it, and that John would have done anything, _anything_ , for him. Anything.

Sherlock didn't answer, but he turned paler than pale, looked around the empty space as if expecting to find someone listening in, and shook his head ever so slightly before he faded away.

%%%%%

The third time, John was just the slightest bit irritated at his subconscious for throwing this routine at him again. If he was going to have a recurring dream, he'd prefer something with a bit more substance. So he asked Sherlock the most interesting question he could think of: Why? Sherlock seemed to have recovered his power of speech as well, although what he said wasn't remotely satisfying.

"I can't- Not even here, this might be-" His eyes pleaded with John to understand, while his fists and shoulders revealed his frustration.

"What kind of a shit answer is that?" John demanded. "Do I not even rate one of the old stand-bys? You couldn't bear the shame, or you had nothing left to live for, or hell, you had a brain tumour or were clinically depressed, what do I know?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, it was nothing like that. God, why don't you ever listen!" he snarled. "You were given all the clues, all you have to do is put them together."

"Yeah, well, not all of us are geniuses," John said bitterly. "Some of us have to make do with our tiny little brains, living our tiny little lives, and when we have minor setbacks like everything that defines us being ripped away with a single bullet, everything we worked for suddenly made worthless because of some fucking minor nerve damage, do we have the luxury of killing ourselves to make it all go away? No, because some bloody genius has to come along and ruin everything. And that's why I really, really hate you, because you fucking - ruined - everything! So if you're going to keep haunting me or whatever it is you're doing here, you're going to have to come up with something a damn sight better than 'I can't', because you're the genius here, and apparently you're the only one who can!"

Sherlock, whose countenance had grown darker during the course of John's outburst, now closed the gap between them. He took John's wrist between his fingers. They were warm and solid, and John was startled by how real they felt. 

"You are wrong, as always," Sherlock said. It was harsh, but there was something else behind it, a frustration at things unspoken. "One day, I hope, I can tell you everything. But for now, this is all the answer I can give you." And he leaned down and kissed John firmly on the mouth. There was nothing overtly sexual about it; it was just skin against dry skin. Still, John was so astonished he couldn't react. He had never dreamed of Sherlock in this way before, had never thought of him as anything other than a friend. 

"What the hell-?" John said as soon as Sherlock removed his lips from John's. But Sherlock was already gone.

%%%%%

This was problematic. And troubling. John spent the entirety of the following day trying to figure out what that dream had meant. Had he really wanted that kind of a relationship with Sherlock? Had he been in denial, suppressing his true feelings? The suggestion had been there from the start, but it had always come from the outside: Mrs Hudson, Angelo, Irene, Mycroft with his 'might we expect a happy announcement'. Even the women John had dated had suspected there was more to their relationship than they let on. John had always rejected the notion, because that's not how they were. He'd never been romantically interested in men, and Sherlock had never been interested in romance of any kind. But had John wanted them to be? Or Sherlock? Especially now, did John think that if they had been closer, Sherlock might not have killed himself? Maybe that's what his subconscious was trying to tell him, and he wouldn't be able to move on until he'd acknowledged it, worked through the regret and the reproaches, and grieved the loss of opportunity and the might-have-beens.

John went to bed that night with a mixture of trepidation and anticipation. It took him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally did, it was a light and restless slumber. Sherlock didn't appear, and John woke up the next morning with a dry mouth, bleary eyes, and a vague sense of bereavement.

%%%%%

Several days went by, and John was beginning to think he'd conquered it, that he'd satisfied whatever his brain was trying to process through his self-analysis and introspection. Maybe he had, at some level, wanted to be Sherlock's lover, wanted to give him that and have that confirmation of his importance to Sherlock as well. Sherlock would have scoffed at it, called the whole thing dull and trite and beneath him, but John was only a man, and he could accept that his emotions were inextricably linked to his body.

Then it happened again. This time, though, Sherlock did an about-face and walked away immediately. 

"No, no, no!" he said, clearly agitated. He paced around the space they were in. It was undefined but apparently limited. "You have to stop this, stop bringing me here."

John folded his arms. "It's not as if I have much control over what I dream, you know."

Sherlock stopped and eyed John keenly. "No," he agreed. "No, you're right, this is- This is your dream. So, get on with it," he said, making a scrolling motion with one hand. "What do you imagine happens next?"

"Haven't the faintest." John was beginning to find this amusing. "I could punch you," he suggested.

Sherlock considered that, and came closer. "Yes, maybe that's what you need. Go ahead then." He presented his cheek and closed his eyes, bracing for the impact. 

John pulled back his arm, prepared to let fly, but aborted the motion before he'd even begun the forward swing. He wasn't angry this time. And this wasn't what he'd been dwelling on the past few days. He hadn't been regretting that he'd not gotten the chance to wallop Sherlock. He hadn't been wondering whether their relationship had been lacking in violence. Instead, he pulled Sherlock's chin around and down, and pressed his lips against Sherlock's. 

John felt Sherlock jerk reflexively, but he didn't actually move away. John opened his eyes and saw that Sherlock also had his eyes open, and was watching him with a calculating frown. John adjusted his stance and pulled Sherlock in by the hip so they could lean against each other, and turned the contact into a real kiss. He kept his mouth closed, but he softened his lips and worked them over Sherlock's, until Sherlock relaxed against him and closed his eyes and kissed him back. 

It was strange; John couldn't not be aware that he was kissing a man. But that was just an undercurrent. The main wave he was coasting on was relief, that he was expressing things that he never could have said, and probably wasn't even consciously aware of, while Sherlock was alive. 

The long, slow clinch had evolved into multiple gentle caresses of their mouths against each other. John found that he was whispering silly things, like 'miss you' and 'please'. He laid his cheek against Sherlock's to catch his breath, and found that Sherlock was also breathing heavily, his pulse throbbing in his neck. 

"I didn't know," Sherlock said in a low voice. 

"What didn't you know?" John asked.

"That you felt this way. That you wanted... this."

John laughed. "I didn't. This is just my subconscious jerking me around. But I mean, it's pretty good. Haven't had that good a snog in months."

Sherlock laughed too. His breath was cool against John's neck. "Me either."

"Afterlife somewhat lacking in that department, is it?"

"Very," Sherlock said, and John could hear the smile.

John pulled back so that he could see Sherlock's face. He looked happy. And deliciously disheveled, with his mouth puffy and red. 

"Would it have made a difference?" John asked. "If we'd - you know, if we'd been like this? Would you still have done it?"

Sherlock held John's gaze. "Even more so, I think."

John's heart clenched at that, although it didn't make sense. Why would Sherlock have wanted to kill himself even more, if they'd been lovers? Would he have found a physical relationship that revolting? But he seemed pleased now with having kissed John. John had to remind himself that this wasn't really Sherlock. It was just a projection of his own fears and desires.

John nodded and stepped back. He slid his hand down Sherlock's arm until he was gripping his fingers. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I couldn't be whatever it was you needed."

"Wrong again. You were- you _are_ more than I ever expected."

%%%%%

John woke up feeling as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He thought that must be the end of it now. He'd had his say, he'd been assured that nothing he could have done would have changed anything, and he'd received his consolation. He felt optimistic for the first time, really, since Sherlock had died.

That's why he was so surprised when it happened again. 

"Oh God, this again?" John said when he saw Sherlock in the colorless space. Secretly, he was pleased, though. These Sherlock analysis dreams were practically the only pleasant ones he had. 

Sherlock grinned. "Hello, John. It's been a while. Have some more issues to work through?"

"I don't know." The only thing that occurred to him was how much he wanted to give Sherlock a hug, to feel that good, solid warmth against him. Which, given that Sherlock was only a figment of his imagination, did seem rather like an issue. It was just a dream, though, and he'd actually done pretty well so far in going with his first impressions in these things. So he moved in and murmured, "Do you mind if I just-" and slipped his arms around Sherlock's waist. 

Sherlock hung there limply for a moment before carefully wrapping his arms around John's back. John sighed in contentment and pressed in closer. He buried his nose in the corner of Sherlock's neck and breathed in the sweet, dark scent there. 

"Where do you go when you're not here?" John asked. John didn't actually care where he went. He was mildly curious as to whether his subconscious was going to assign Sherlock to the role of an angel or a devil. His lips moved against Sherlock's skin as he spoke, and he left them there, slightly parted, even after he'd finished the question. He could taste the salt. He dared to let his tongue just barely brush the surface of the skin. 

"Back," Sherlock said, which was such a non-answer that John had to congratulate himself at the diversion.

It was all metaphysical anyway and certainly had nothing to do with the lovely neck under his mouth. He could feel Sherlock's voice both through his lips and in his chest. The vibrations zipped down pathways that merged somewhere below his navel. He slid his hands down to Sherlock's arse and gave up all pretense of not actually sucking on Sherlock's neck. 

"John," Sherlock said, in what sounded distressingly like a protest. He didn't move away, though. If anything, he held John more tightly.

"Shut up, it's my fucking dream. Let me have this." John tilted his head up to find Sherlock's mouth, and this time didn't bother with keeping things chaste. If this was where he needed to go with this, he'd figure out what it all meant later. It wasn't as if he was _actually_ snogging Sherlock. Although the bitter tobacco lingering on his tongue was all too realistic.

"You taste like an ashtray," John said, undeterred.

"I wasn't exactly-" Sherlock had to stop speaking as John inserted his tongue into his mouth again. There was no conversation for a couple of minutes, aside from gasps of 'fuck' and 'so good' and 'yes'. 

John was unsurprised, although slightly embarrassed, to find that he'd become aroused during this time. It was, after all, how these dreams went, all too predictably. Sherlock must have noticed. They were plastered together. When John looked at him, Sherlock had his eyes closed and a pained expression on his face. John's heart sank. He let go and tried to disentangle himself.

"I'm sorry," he said, his face hot with shame.

Sherlock's eyes popped open. He took in John's distress and pulled him back. "No, don't- It's not that. I- It's very flattering." He attempted a smile, both smug and shy. "I'm just afraid that I've let this go too far. We would never be here if you- if I were still alive. I'm afraid this is only making things harder for you. No pun intended." He chuckled.

John giggled and leaned his forehead against Sherlock's chest. His hands were resting comfortably on Sherlock's narrow hips. "Strangely, I think it's made things easier. You know, allowing myself to feel these things. You're right, I couldn't have done it when you were alive. Not that you would have, either, married to your work as you were."

Sherlock rubbed a hand over John's back, bringing it to rest spanning the base of his neck, his fingers just brushing the skin over his collar. 

"You were important to me, you know," Sherlock said into John's hair. "Maybe even more than the work."

But then that wasn't true at all, was it? John thought with a sense of disappointment and betrayal. If he had been, Sherlock would never have killed himself.

%%%%%

It was at this point that John figured he needed some outside perspective. Not Ella. God, no. He couldn't go to her and tell her he was having erotic dreams about his deceased flatmate. Who he was probably in love with. Had been. Had been in love with. Not that he was going to admit it to anyone else, either. Not like that.

He arranged to meet Mike for a pint. After the usual chit-chat, and when they were both nearly done with their second, John was warmed up enough to broach his concern. It took a couple of false starts, but John was eventually able to get out that he was having suggestive dreams about someone (definitely not Mike) he never would have fancied in real life. Although that part wasn't exactly true, was it? He might have fancied Sherlock. He had just never allowed himself to. He didn't expand on that point, however. Instead, he tried to speculate what it could mean: was he seeking validation? Absolution? Was he afraid of intimacy?

Mike listened quietly, and when John was finished and feeling like a right tit, Mike said, very calmly, "Sometimes candy is just candy."

John furrowed his brow in amusement. "Yeah, what does that mean?"

Mike smiled. "Sorry, it's a line from an old television series. Northern Exposure. You ever watch it?" John shook his head. "Never mind. It was set in a small town in Alaska, and in one episode the people kept getting their dreams wires crossed because of the Northern Lights or something. I mean, they would dream each other's dreams." 

Mike took a sip of his beer, and checked that John was following him before he went on. "Anyway, the doctor got a dream that should have been for a little boy who was diabetic. He was trying to figure out why he was dreaming about candy, what it symbolised, you know? He didn't know it was the little boy's dream. And the nurse told him, maybe candy is just candy."

John considered this. "So, what you're saying is, maybe sex is just sex?"

Mike shrugged and smiled his little Buddha smile.

"So my subconscious is telling me I need to get a leg over?" John grinned into his drink.

Mike leaned in and looked at John over the top of his glasses. "What I'm saying is, even if things weren't like that between you, it's okay to be thinking about it. No one's going to think any less of you."

John gaped, then thudded his head down onto the table, mortified. "So much for keeping things anonymous."

"If it's any comfort, he did have a magnificent arse."

John laughed. He laughed right there, with his head on the sticky pub table, until the tears were running down his face.

%%%%%

The last time it happened, John was ready.

He'd thought about it a lot. He thought about his conversation with Mike, and about all of the previous dreams. It was interesting how vivid those dreams remained, even now, some of them months past. They were more like memories. He'd also thought, consciously, about what sex with Sherlock would have been like. Those scenarios were interesting in and of themselves, but they didn't have the straightforward certainty of his dreams. He kept second-guessing himself, redrawing the scenes, skipping steps and abandoning trains of thought mid-action. It was hard enough (no pun intended) to imagine his own reactions, let alone Sherlock's. Part of it was that he felt guilty about using Sherlock's memory in such a manner, to engage him in acts he never would have partaken of in real life. Although John was no longer one hundred percent certain of that. He would never know now, but he liked to think that maybe, just maybe, he and Sherlock might have had that kind of relationship, if John had been less adamant in his denials and Sherlock had been less closed with his emotions. That, if there were anyone in the world Sherlock might have felt that way about, it would have been John. 

When Sherlock appeared, John immediately went to him. 

"I missed you," he said, kissing him lightly on the lips. It was easy now. 

Sherlock wasn't reticent either, as he had been previously. He returned the greeting and embraced John firmly, resting his forehead against John's. "I've missed you, too. I don't think I'd have been able to get through this without these meetings."

"I think this is the last time," John said. The import only really hit him as he said it. This was the last time he'd see Sherlock like this, as he had been in life. After this, all he would have left were memories and those misty, stuttering daydreams. 

Sherlock looked startled, bordering on alarmed. "How do you know?" he asked.

"Because this is the seventh time. Seven is a magic number."

Sherlock snorted. "I never took you to be superstitious."

"Apparently I am. Also, we're going to have sex now. That's what this has all been leading up to. After that, there's nothing left."

"I sincerely hope that isn't true. Also, I'm not certain that's the best plan."

"Sherlock," John said as he began nuzzling against the underside of Sherlock's jaw.

"What?"

"It's my dream. And I need this." He proceeded to re-acquaint himself with Sherlock's lips, his mouth, his tongue. He was pleased to find that this time, his subconscious had made Sherlock brush his teeth. 

"All right, yes, God help me, this is probably the worst idea ever, but John- John!" Sherlock grabbed John's face with both hands to force him to stop and look at him. "You have to remember: this is just a dream."

Something about the way Sherlock was looking at him gave John pause, but he quickly dismissed it. He was certain about this. If he didn't do it now, he'd always wonder. One time, and he could finally lay the part of his life he'd shared with Sherlock to rest. John agreed, somewhat bemusedly, "Just a dream." 

Then he went back to exploring with his hands and mouth: Sherlock's ears, his hands, his face, his neck. When he was done with what was already exposed, he unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt and started on his collarbones, his shoulders, his arms, his chest. Sherlock kept his hands on John, wherever he could reach, returning his kisses when he could and biting back little exclamations of pleasure in the back of his throat. His respiration was becoming unsteady and loud, but he didn't say anything, not even when John dropped to his knees and rubbed his cheek against the now prominent bulge in his trousers. 

John had a moment of anxiety then, but it passed quickly. It wasn't as if he was going to be judged on this. He needed to give this to Sherlock, and he needed Sherlock to let him. The details were unimportant. He undid Sherlock's trousers and pulled the flies open. Sherlock's cock was rigid inside his pants, forced sideways at a forty-five degree angle and distending the fabric. 

John eased Sherlock's trousers down past his hips as he bit gently at his cock through the pants. Sherlock had one hand on John's head, steadying both of them. John slipped a hand in underneath Sherlock, over his pants, to cup his testicles. They were heavy and full. With his other hand, he gently pulled back the waistband to expose the head of Sherlock's penis. With the constriction removed, it bobbed upright, right underneath John's nose. He tried an experimental lick. The skin was warm and smooth and salty, not unpleasant. 

An abrupt, quick intake of breath from Sherlock had John looking up. Sherlock's eyes were wide, as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing. John smiled and slowly enveloped the entire head of Sherlock's cock in his mouth. When he encountered the cowl of foreskin, the taste turned slightly more bitter and the texture softer. He gathered more saliva and spread it around with his tongue. It didn't exactly taste great, but it wasn't disgusting. Sherlock groaned and dropped his head forward, his eyes squeezing shut. That made it all worth it. 

John pulled Sherlock's pants down further, giving him access to everything. He licked up and down, as wetly as he could, then figured, in for a penny, in for a pound, and tried to take the entire length into his mouth. Apparently deep-throating was not one of his dream self's talents, however, and he pulled away, coughing and embarrassed.

"John, you don't have to-" Sherlock said, caressing John's head.

"I want to," John managed hoarsely. "Just, give me a sec." He wished he had a glass of water, but he settled for sitting back on his heels to give his knees a break and swallowing several times. 

Sherlock knelt down in front of him and took John's hands, holding them where they were resting on his thighs. Sherlock's cock still stood up redly, lending the whole thing an air of the ridiculous. 

"God, I can't even be a sex god in my own dream," John sighed. "How pathetic is that?"

Sherlock smiled. "I thought you were doing quite well." He squeezed John's hand. "Maybe if we- Like this." He sat back and shimmied his trousers and pants the rest of the way off, then lay down on the - ground? Floor? Undefined flat surface? - tugging John down with him. "Couldn't have dreamed any furniture, could you?" he complained. 

"I always knew you'd be demanding in bed," John grumbled. He settled himself so that he was lying on his side next to Sherlock, supporting his head with his right hand. With his left hand, he stroked Sherlock's chest and abdomen, venturing down to brush over his penis as well, which had softened a bit. 

"Remember, just a dream," Sherlock said, and tilted his face up to accept a kiss. 

"Yes, I don't think there's any danger of me believing this is actually happening," John said, amused, against his mouth. 

"Good," Sherlock purred. He shifted so that he was on his side as well, and started to undo John's jeans. "All right?" he asked.

"God, yes," John said. He gripped Sherlock's penis and worked his hand up and down its length. 

Sherlock couldn't do much more than get John's jeans open; there was no chance of pulling them down without John getting up, and there was no way he was about to do that. Still, Sherlock managed to get his hand inside John's pants, pressed up tight against his stomach. At the first touch of those fingers, John groaned deeply. It felt like all of his internal organs were melting down into his groin. In a sublimely pleasant way, of course. 

Sherlock wasn't able to manoeuvre much, but that didn't matter. It was the fact that he was here, with John, doing this, that he was panting into John's mouth, kissing him, his fingers fumbling to reach John's testicles, uncoordinated, lost to their mutual sensations, not thinking about serial killers or patterns of decomposition or two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco. It was the way he leaned into John, the way he tensed and locked his mouth onto him, and made a series of high, staccato grunts just before a slick, warm wetness bloomed into John's hand, that took John's breath away and sent a tingling wave rushing through him, throbbing and pulsing out of time with his heartbeat but stronger, not just a physical sensation but a spiritual awakening. 

They both flopped onto their backs simultaneously, gasping as if they'd just completed a rooftop chase across London. 

"Oh God," John said, starting to laugh. "That was-" He laughed some more.

"My sentiments exactly," Sherlock rejoined. He huffed a few times and caught hold of John's right hand with his left. 

John realised that the dream must be nearly over. It had never gone on this long before. He squeezed Sherlock's hand and turned his head so he could see him. "Thank you," he said. "I think, if there's one thing I want you to take with you, wherever you're going, it's that you were the best thing that ever happened to me, and it was an honour and a privilege to be your friend." 

"And I want you to remember-" Sherlock said.

"I know, this was just a dream." John was beginning to get annoyed at Sherlock's obsession with that.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I was going to say, I want you to remember, no matter what, that I don't regret any of it. Whether this was a dream or not."

John sat up. "What does that mean?"

"It won't be long now, John," Sherlock said. 

And then he was gone.

%%%%%

**Author's Note:**

> John may possibly have miscounted, but I didn't. This is me being clever. ;)


End file.
